Thorokyne
by Paarthurnax
Summary: This is based on the 100 theme challenge by Momma-Ran on DeviantArt so I decided to use the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim for my take on it. This story is centered around my Dovahkiin - a Dunmer native to the Ashlands of Vvardenfell by the name of Thorokyne. Each chapter is a stand alone one-shot, however, they're linked enough I'm putting them together in one story.
1. 1 Name

Okay, so this is going to be somewhat of a challenge for me as I have never tackled anything like this before. I'm trying for a theme here; to tell the story of my personal Dovahkiin through the eyes of those around him via one of the 100 theme challenges I found on DeviantArt. Hopefully this is a success, and I invite you all on the journey. Constructive critique is always welcomed, it's part of the learning process after all so don't be shy! Have at it.

Some things to keep in mind...

* I am a huge fan of Morrowind's version of the Dunmer, rudeness and all, and reflected my character after _that_ , not the watered down versions in Oblivion and parts of Skyrim. (Neloth kind of redeemed some of Skyrim in my eyes, lol.)

 **\\\ /\ / \\\ /\ / / /\/\ \\\\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\**

Thorokyne

#1. Name

 **\\\ /\ / \\\ /\ / / /\/\ \\\\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\**

Ralof of Riverwood was never accused of being a complicated man. When asked to describe him, most would say that he was a simple, if honorable, Nord that was ever proud of his country and kin. It had been expected of him, when Jarl Ulfric had raised the spark of rebellion into a full fledged war, that he join the Stormcloaks and he did so without hesitation. He fought the Imperials, the Thalmor, his own kin...whomever stood in the way of Skyrim's freedom, he cut down without a second thought.

And now...now, it seemed, he would be paying the ultimate price for his loyalty.

The headsman was not what he would have chosen to be his end, however, men such as himself and his bothers and sisters-in-arms that stood beside him this day were rarely able to pick their own destinies. Tales and legends were reserved for men like Jarl Ulfric, Uriel Septim, Ysgramor, Talos... He would not be amongst such heroes though he did hold out hope that Sovngarde stood at the other side of that bloody axe. To enter the Hall of Valor, to be at peace with his kinsmen...he would be content in such a life.

As he stepped down from the wagon, he sent a silent prayer to Shor to look after his soul this day.

When he faced Hadvar for the first time since this war had begun, he saw the sadness in his old friend's eyes...the _regret_...and found a part of him hoping this war would soon end. Honorable in intention it may be, but the civil unrest was taking its toll.

"What is your name?"

The confused, somewhat hostile lilt of Hadvar's voice had him glancing back to see the newest prisoner; a Dunmer whom Ulfric had been glaring at for the last two days, leveling a blank stare at the Nord. Ralof had come to know the expression well, none of his questions answered as the elf kept his thoughts to himself. Even when the high elves whom had escorted them to Helgen came asking questions, the Dunmer refused to speak. Because of this, he sported bruises dark enough to blotch even his azure skin and Ralof would hand it to him for the Altmer never seemed to get so riled up until someone deigned to ignore them.

When no answer was forthcoming, a frowning Hadvar turned to his Captain. "What should we do? There's nothing about a dark elf on the list."

"He goes to the block."

He stared at the Imperial Captain in shock, as did the other Stormcloaks and even Ulfric seemed surprised.

Though clearly grieved at such a command, Hadvar didn't argue and instead turned back to the elf whom looked on in indifference. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely, "we'll be sure to return your remains to Morrowind."

And that comment, as respectful as it was meant to be, was what _finally_ prompted the elf to speak.

He glowered at Hadvar, lip curled up in a sneer as he spat out, "I was born to the ashlands of Vvardenfell, s'wit. The Morrowind of today is no more my home than it is yours. Burn my carcass for all I care, Nord, for my _home_ no longer exists."

The Dunmer's voice gave him away instantly, even if he hadn't revealed his origin. Though all dark elves native to Morrowind retained a certain rasp of an accent from their use of the Daedric language, the Ashlanders were known to have the harshest tones given that they rarely ventured from Morrowind and held up millennia-old traditions of their ancestors.

'True Dunmer,' they were often called.

Hadvar, for his part, stared at the elf, opening his mouth several times to respond but not able to.

"Enough," the Captain snapped, stepping forward to grab the elf by the arm and forcefully drag him to stand beside Ralof and the others. At the elf's sluggish stumble when the Captain let go, Ralof finally understood.

 _'Poisoned,'_ he thought, a part of him angry on the elf's behalf. To fall in battle and be captured held a dignity to it that remained with you, however, kept controlled by poison was another thing entirely. Dunmer, by trade, knew a handful of spells naturally and held a natural affinity for destruction magic...no doubt the elf would be fighting if he could.

As General Tullius practically gloated in his success at capturing Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof's attention was focused on the elf.

A typical Dunmer by the first look, he was obviously no youngster. His eyes gave him away, even if the deep scarring along his arms and face did not. Weary though aware, he was calm and collected unlike the young horse thief whom had tried to run. He was an inch or two shy of Ralof's height, slim but lean...a hunter, if he were to guess. Hair as black as ebony was loose and tangled with dirt and blood hung limply around his shoulders. A mark was inked over the jagged scarring on his face, a sharp narrow design with Daedric runes Ralof had no hope of translating.

As if feeling his gaze, eyes the color of blood turned to regard him.

Ralof held the stare a moment before looking away, focusing once more on the situation at hand.

The priestess they'd brought had begun the last rites, sans Talos of course, but a particularly courageous and difficult soldier within the ranks stepped up, sound only exasperated as he said, "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."

The woman clenched her teeth, arms falling to her sides. "As you wish."

When the axe came down, Ralof couldn't help but smile a bit fondly. "As fearless in death, as he was in life."

Ulfric met his eye a moment at his words before turning back.

As the Imperials dragged his body away, the Captain turned to them once more. "Next, the elf."

To his credit, the Dunmer hesitated only a moment before stepping forward on his own. When he approached the block, he paused a moment to look at it, as well as the executioner, before kneeling. The Captain behind him, who'd been poised to shove him to his knees, nearly lost her balance and regained it only at the price of looking the fool.

An inelegant snort escaped him and Ralof wasn't even afraid of the glare she shot at him.

In the following years, Ralof would never be able to recall in exact detail all that happened next. As the axe lifted, the ground suddenly shook enough to knock him off his feet and all he heard was the cry of, _"Dragon!"_ before he was running. He managed to get his hands free, somehow, and helped Ulfric and the rest free themselves before he went back to help the elf who was struggling. The chaos that followed as the two of them ran through the tunnels beneath Helgen and, finally, out into the wilderness towards their freedom was exhilarating, terrifying and Ralof had never been so grateful to be alive as he was in the moment they stood outside Helgen, watching as the black dragon ascended into the heavens.

The journey to Riverwood took the better part of a day, however, the elf surprised Ralof with questions here and there, be they about a particular story he shared or Skyrim. When they did finally arrive at his home, he was ecstatic to see his sister, Gerdur, and was thankful for her patience and kind heart when she opened her home to his companion as well despite knowing only that Ralof trusted the mer with his life. A theory that had been put to the test many times in the short time they'd known each other.

When the elf was readying to leave for Whiterun three days later after taking the opportunity to rest and having earned a bit of coin from the local shop keeper for fetching a golden claw in Bleak Falls Barrow, Ralof watched as the elf adorned the leather armor he'd commissioned to have made.

"Ironic," he said, earning the elf's attention. "I trust you with my life, yet I don't know your name."

The elf paused in his motions, crimson eyes meeting his as the Dunmer turned to him. After a few moments, something in his posture relaxed and the elf's lip curled up ever so slightly. "Thorokyne," he finally answered, his voice harsh but not as hoarse as it had been at Helgen. "My name is Thorokyne."

"Well, then," he stood, approaching the elf to clap him on the shoulder. "Thorokyne, my friend, it is an honor to know you. I owe you more than you realize. Call on me if I can ever repay the favor, and think on my words. You don't have to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim."

The elf bowed his head. "And I shall give you my answer when I have learned more of Skyrim, and the people that call it home."

"Fair enough," he conceded, offering a smile. "Best of luck to you, and may the wind be at your back."

The elf clapped his shoulder in return, nodding once before taking his leave.

As the door shut, Ralof couldn't help but wonder exactly how the dark elf would be leaving his mark on Skyrim for there was no doubt in his mind that Thorokyne would shape their future in some way.

 **\\\ /\ / \\\ /\ / / /\/\ \\\\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\**

Thorokyne

End of #1. Name

 **\\\ /\ / \\\ /\ / / /\/\ \\\\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\**


	2. 2 Family

And here we are with the second installment of Thorokyne. I don't know if I'm happy with this, because the flow of the thing is a little forced. I tried to soften it because I love the idea that popped into my head at the word 'Family' so I shall let you all decide. Any critique, comments or feedback is welcomed. *Anant - comes from the spring (If I'm not as Rusty as I think I am, anyway...) Enjoy! ^.^

 **/ /\ \\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\**

 **Thorokyne**

 **#2. Family**

 **\\\ \/ / \\\ \/ / \\\\\ \/ / \\\ \/ / \\\ \/ /**

 **\\\ Whiterun, Temple of Kynareth /**

" _Come to me, Kynareth, for without you, I might not know the mysteries of the world, and so blind and in terror, I might consume and profane the abundance of your beautiful treasures..."_

Danica Pure-Spring was distracted from the apprentices' daily readings at the sound of the temple's main door opening, eyes going wide when she saw two guards enter with the familiar, though non-moving, form of Whiterun's newest Thane; a dark elf whom was whispered to be Dragonborn amongst the guard and townsfolk.

There was no hesitation as she stood, ordering the men to place him upon the stone alters so she may have a look at him. "What happened," she demanded, removing the crude bandage from the elf's eye to see the ugly, jagged gash beneath it.

"Found him on the road a few miles from the gate," one answered. "Slavers, by the look of it. From Morrowind would be my guess. Wasn't much left of them."

No more explanations were needed or wanted as she carefully began tending to her new patient, mindful of the eye but more concerned for his ruined leg. The muscle was in ribbons, the bones splintered and sticking up through the skin and was bleeding far more.

Thank Kynareth the mer was unconscious, she thought as she began the tedious process that came with healing.

… … …

…

… … …

Hours later found Danica slowly cleaning up the various herbs and tools she'd used on the Thane, having long sent her apprentices to bed and banished the guardsmen though they remained at the doors outside. The hour was long past late and the weariness in her very bones had the strong, Nordic woman feeling all her years as she moved sluggishly through the temple, checking in on the few other patients who'd been neglected in their rush to aide the elf.

As she looked, however, she was thankful to note that none seemed to have suffered for the lack of attention.

Taking the items towards the second door, she stacked them beside it to be removed and cleaned on the morrow when the Temple came to life again.

As she slowly removed the cowl around her head, she sighed deeply and began readying herself for sleep only to pause in her motions when she suddenly became aware of a sound...a scraping?...against the stone floor of the temple. With a huff, she grabbed a nearby broom and set about looking for the source.

If one of those damned skeevers had gotten in again...

She froze.

There, mostly hidden behind one of the large planters that held various herbs and flowers that supplied the temple's needs, was a tail. A small one, yes, but a tail nonetheless. Every so often, it twitched and the small spikes all along it scraped against the ancient urn.

Raising the broom, she crept as quietly as possibly towards it and hefted it even higher when she rounded the pot; ready to smack whatever was hiding behind it.

Only to freeze again...terrified red eyes meeting confused brown ones as she stared down at the child.

For it was a child.

An Argonian child.

He was no higher than her hip, if that, and was skin and bones...his skin was a pale white in color, an unhealthy tinge to it and deep bruising all along his frame. The red of his eyes bled into what was normally the white, and small spikes lined his tail, back, arms and head before ending with two small horns that promised to grow with age. Colorless claws lined his hands and feet, his youth showing for they had no strength and several were broken off.

When he curled further in on himself, lowering his head and eyes to the ground, Danica snapped back to the moment and immediately lowered the broom to lean it against the wall once more. "You gave me a start, child. I didn't hear you enter."

The small boy retreated a step at her words, using his hands and feet to move before his eyes quickly glanced to the side before snapping back to her. That small glance garnered a swift understanding and she smiled softly, now kneeling in front of the child in hopes of not frightening him further.

"He'll be all right, young one. He only sleeps."

The boy didn't retreat any further, though neither did he come to her.

"You could go to him if you wish," she prompted, her smile widening when at the surprise on his face. "Go on now, the night is nearly over and we should all have been asleep hours ago."

And thus, Danica Pure-Spring was treated to a most unusual sight...an Argonian child clambering up with all the grace of a mudcrab to cuddle against a Dunmer whom even she could see was no youth. The boy shoved his way under the mer's arm and gripped the plain linen shirt he wore with enough force to rip it should either of them move and rested his head above the elf's heart. Within moments, he was asleep.

Danica was just ready to turn and follow his example when she saw the Dunmer's arm grip the child, her eyes meeting his tired gaze. His right eye was bandaged, Danica knowing the elf would never regain his sight in it but the mer didn't seem concerned with that as he glanced down at the child on his side before his eye slipped close and he drifted off once more.

… … …

…

… … …

And so, life went on in Whiterun in the months that followed and the city flourished under the care of its Jarl and new Thane, the now infamous Dunmer Dovahkiin whom had somehow won their hearts.

Danica had grown to know Thorokyne rather well, glad for the Dunmer's friendship for he was an excellent and refreshingly different point of view when it came to matters of the world or simple neighborhood politics between the townsfolk. As a mer, he viewed time differently than Nords did and was able to put many things into a perspective that would otherwise be lacking. She could see now why Balgruuf valued his counsel, and was given new insight as to how Irileth had earned the right to be a Jarl's housecarl.

After that night, when he was able, Thorokyne had visited her to offer his gratitude for her services though all she could focus on in the moment was the quiet, pale Argonian whom had been hiding behind the mer's legs and peeking out at her warily every so often.

When the Ashlander had healed enough to begin walking with a cane, it quickly became a common sight within the walls to see him walking with the pale Argonian at his hip while his ever-loyal housecarl, Lydia, hovered around her Thane and his charge should something threaten either of them.

Thorokyne made daily visits to Dragonsreach during this time, helping Balgruuf often in matters regarding the city and hold as well as giving his input in regards to the civil war that was beginning to darken their doorstep.

Inevitably, a few months down the line, it was deemed the mer was healthy enough to travel once again and Balgruuf asked his Thane to venture to Windhelm and deliver a message to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak himself. The mer, as per his usual self, agreed.

"I could watch after him if you like," she offered after hearing of this. "I could continue his lessons in reading and restoration magic. He seems to have developed a talent for it."

Thorokyne nodded, his eye focused entirely on his sleeping son whom was none the wiser. "I would greatly appreciate that. He has become," the mer paused a moment, his voice harsh as always but with far more emotion than Danica had ever heard, "very dear to me. I would not part from him if I had a choice."

"Well, he will be proud to show you what he has learned in your absence when you return," she offered.

"Yes," he agreed, a small half-smile resting on his face. "I would take him with me, but the city is biased enough against my own kin...I would not expose him to such hatred after all that's happened."

"Have you thought of a name yet?" Danica asked, smiling as she not so subtly changed the topic. "You have been very...particular...about it."

Thorokyne leveled a mock glare at her. "Nords do not look upon names as my kind do. Few races do. But to answer your question, I have. His name shall be Anant."

She nodded. "It suits him, and I believe he will agree if only because you've given it to him."

And, for just a moment, the world faded away as Danica watched Thorokyne watch his son, Anant, sleep. She felt like something of an outsider as she observed them but made no move to stop. Family, it seemed, was not dictated by blood like the Gray-Manes or Battle-Borns so believed, but simply by love.

And never had she seen more a loving family than right here before her.

 **/ /\ \\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\\\ / /\ \\\ / /\ \\\**

 **Thorokyne**

 **End of #2. Family**

 **\\\ \/ / \\\ \/ / \\\\\ \/ / \\\ \/ / \\\ \/ /**


End file.
